He clasped her to him reassuringly, and presently she knew that he bore her upstairs, holding her comfortably close all the way.

"Don't go away from me!" she begged him weakly.

"Not so long as you want me, little sweetheart," he made answer. But her woman's heart told her that a parting was imminent notwithstanding.

In all her life she had never had so much attention before. She seemed to have entered upon a new and amazing phase of existence. Colonel de Vigne faded completely into the background, and she found herself in the care of Biddy and the doctor. Eustace left her with a low promise to return, and she had to be satisfied with that thought, though she would fain have clung to him still.

They undressed her and put her into a hot bath that did much to lessen the numb constriction of her limbs, though it brought also the most agonizing pain she had ever known. When it was over, the limit of her endurance was long past; and she lay in hot blankets weeping helplessly while Biddy tried in vain to persuade her to drink some scalding mixture that she swore would make her feel as gay as a lark.

In the midst of this, someone entered quietly and stood beside her; and all in a moment there came to Dinah the consciousness of an unknown force very strangely uplifting her. She looked up with a quivering smile in the midst of her tears.

"Oh, Mr. Greatheart," she whispered brokenly, "is it you?"

He smiled down upon her, and took the cup from Biddy's shaky old hand.

"May I give you this?" he said.

Dinah was filled with gratified confusion. "Oh, please, you mustn't trouble! But—how very kind of you!"

He took Biddy's place by her side. His eyes were shining with an odd brilliance, almost, she thought to herself wonderingly, as if they held tears. A sharp misgiving went through her. How was it they were bestowing so much care upon her, unless Isabel—Isabel—

She did not dare to put her doubt into words, but he read it and instantly answered it. "Don't be anxious!" he said in his kindly, tired voice. "All is well. Isabel is asleep—actually sleeping quietly without any draught. The doctor is quite satisfied about her."

He spoke the simple truth, she knew; he was incapable of doing anything else. A great wave of thankfulness went through her, obliterating the worst of her misery.

"I am so glad," she told him weakly. "I was—so dreadfully afraid. I—I had to go with her, Mr. Studley. I do hope everyone understands."

"Everyone does," he made answer gently. "Now let me give you this, and then you must sleep too."

She drank from the cup he held, and felt revived.

He did not speak again till she had finished; then he leaned slightly towards her, and spoke with great earnestness. "Miss Bathurst, do you realize, I wonder, that you saved my sister's life by going with her? I do; and I shall never forget it."

She was sure now that she caught the gleam of tears in the grey eyes. She slipped her hands out to him. "I only did what I could," she murmured confusedly. "Anyone would have done it. And please, Mr. Greatheart, will you call me Dinah?"

"Or Mercy?" he suggested smiling, her hands clasped close in his.

She smiled back with shy confidence. The memory of her dream was in her mind, but she could not tell him of that.

"No," she said. "Just Dinah. I'm not nice enough to be called anything else. And thank you—thank you for being so good to me."

"My dear child," he made quiet reply, "no one who really knows you could be anything else."

"Oh, don't you think they could?" said Dinah wistfully. "I wish there were more people in the world like you."

"No one ever thought of saying that to me before," said Scott.



CHAPTER XXII

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

After that interview with Scott there followed a long, long period of pain and weakness for Dinah. She who had never known before what it meant to be ill went down to the Valley of the Shadow and lingered there for many days and nights. And there came a time when those who watched beside her began to despair of her ever turning back.

So completely had she lost touch with the ordinary things of life that she knew but little of what went on around her, dwelling as it were apart, conscious sometimes of agonizing pain, but more often of a dreadful sinking as of one overwhelmed in the billows of an everlasting sea. At such times she would cling piteously to any succouring hand, crying to them to hold her up—only to hold her up. And if the hand were the hand of Greatheart, she always found comfort at length and a sense of security that none other could impart.

Her fancy played about him very curiously in those days. She saw him in many guises,—as prince, as knight, as magician; but never as the mean and insignificant figure which first had caught her attention on that sunny morning before the fancy-dress ball.

This man who sat beside her bed of suffering for hours together because she fretted when he went away, who held her up when the gathering billows threatened to overwhelm her fainting soul, who prayed for her with the utmost simplicity when she told him piteously that she could not pray for herself, this man was above and beyond all ordinary standards. She looked up to him with reverence, as one of colossal strength who had power with God.

But she never dreamed again that golden dream of Greatheart in his shining armour with the light of a great worship in his eyes. That had been a wild flight of presumptuous fancy that never could come true.

His was not the only hand to which she clung during those terrible days of fear and suffering. Another presence was almost constantly beside her night and day,—a tender, motherly presence that watched over and ministered to her with a devotion that never slackened. For some time Dinah could not find a name for this gracious and comforting presence, but one day when a figure clothed in a violet dressing-gown stooped over her to give her nourishment an illuminating memory came to her, and from that moment this loving nurse of hers filled a particular niche in her heart which was dedicated to the Purple Empress. She could think of no other name for her. That quiet and stately presence seemed to demand a royal appellation. In her calmer moments Dinah liked to lie and watch the still face with its crown of silvery hair. She loved the touch of the white hands that always knew with unerring intuition exactly what needed to be done. There seemed to be healing in their touch.

Very strangely the thought of Eustace never came to her, or coming, but flitted unrecorded and undetained across the surface of her mind. He had receded with all the rest of the world into the far, far distance that lay behind her. He had no place in this region of many shadows where these others so tenderly guided her wandering feet. No one else had any place there save old Biddy who, being never absent, seemed a part of the atmosphere, and the doctor who came and went like a presiding genie in that waste of desolation.

She did not welcome his visits, although he was invariably kind, for on one occasion she caught a low murmur from him to the effect that her mother had better come to her, and this suggestion had thrown her into a most painful state of apprehension. She had implored them weeping to let her mother stay away, and they had hushed her with soothing promises; but she never saw the doctor thereafter without a nervous dread that she might also see her mother's gaunt figure accompanying him. And she was sure—quite sure—that her mother would be very angry with her when she saw her helplessness.

Nightmares of her mother's advent began to trouble her. She would start up in anguish of soul, scarcely believing in the soothing arms that held her till their tenderness hushed her back to calmness.

"No one can come to you, sweetheart, while I am here." How often she heard the low words murmured lovingly over her head! "See, I am holding you! You are quite safe. No one can take you from me."

And Dinah would cling to her beloved empress till her panic died away.

On one of these occasions Scott was present, and he presently left the sick-room with a look in his eyes that gave him a curiously hard expression. He went deliberately in search of Billy whom he found playing a not very spirited game with the two little daughters of the establishment. The weather had broken, and several people had left in consequence.

Billy was bored as well as anxious, and his attitude said as much as he unceremoniously left his small playfellows to join Scott.

"Just amusin' the kids," he observed explanatorily. "How is she now?"

Scott linked his hand in the boy's arm. "She's pretty bad, Billy," he said. "Both lungs are affected. The doctor thinks badly of her, though he still hopes he may pull her through."

"You may you mean," returned Billy. "Can't say the de Vignes have put themselves out at all over her. There's Rose flirts all day long with your brother, and Lady Grace grumbling continually about the folly of undertaking other people's responsibilities. She swears she must get back at the end of next week for their precious house-party. And the Colonel fumes and says the same. I told him I shouldn't go unless she was out of danger, though goodness knows, sir, I don't want to sponge on you."

Scott's hand pressed his arm reassuringly. "Don't imagine such a thing possible!" he said. "Of course you must stay if she isn't very much better by that time. But now, Billy, tell me—if it isn't an unwelcome question—why doesn't your sister want your mother to come to her?"

Billy gave him one of his shrewd glances. "She's told you that, has she? Well, you know the mater is rather a queer fish, and I doubt very much if she'd come if you asked her."

"My good fellow!" Scott said. "Not if she were dying?"

"I doubt it," said Billy, unmoved. "You see, the mater hasn't much use for Dinah, except as a maid-of-all work. Never has had. It's not altogether her fault. It's just the way she's made."

"Good heavens!" said Scott, and added, as if to himself, "That little fairy thing!"

"She can't help it," said Billy. "She can't get on with the female species. It's like cats, you know,—a sort of jealousy."

"And your father?" questioned Scott, the hard look growing in his eyes.

"Oh, Dad!" said Billy, smiling tolerantly. "He's all right—quite a decent sort. But you wouldn't get him to leave home in the middle of the hunting season. He's one of the Whips."

Scott's hand had tightened unconsciously to a grip. Billy looked at him in surprised interrogation, and was amazed to see a heavy frown drawing the colourless brows. There was a fiery look in the pale eyes also that he had never seen before.

He waited in silence for developments, being of a wary disposition, and in a moment Scott spoke in a voice of such concentrated fury that Billy felt as if a total stranger were confronting him.

"An infernal and blackguardly shame!" he said. "It would serve them right if the little girl never went back to them again. I never heard of such damnable callousness in all my life before."

Billy opened his eyes wide, and after a second or two permitted himself a soft whistle.

Scott's hold upon his arm relaxed. "Yes, I know," he said. "I've no right to say it to you. But when the blood boils, you've got to let off the steam somehow. I suppose you've written to tell them all about her?"

"Oh yes, I wrote, and so did the Colonel. I had a letter from Dad this morning. He said he hoped she was better and that she was being well looked after. That's like Dad, you know. He never realizes a thing unless he's on the spot. I daresay I shouldn't myself," said Billy broadmindedly. "It's want of imagination in the main."

"Or want of heart," said Scott curtly.

Billy did not attempt to refute the amendment. "It's just the way you chance to be made," he said philosophically. "Of course I'm fond of Dinah. We're pals. But Dad's an easy-going sort of chap. He isn't specially fond of anybody. The mater,—well, she's keen on me, I suppose," he blushed a little; "but, as I said before, she hasn't much use for Dinah. Even when she was a small kid, she used to whip her no end. Dinah is frightened to death at her. I don't wonder she doesn't want her sent for."

Scott's face was set in stern lines. "She certainly shall not be sent for," he said with decision. "The poor child shall be left in peace."

"She is going to get better, isn't she?" said Billy quickly.

"I hope so, old chap. I hope so." Scott patted his shoulder kindly and prepared to depart.

But Billy detained him a moment. "I say, can't I come and see her?"

"Not now, lad." Scott paused, and all the natural kindliness came back into his eyes. "My sister was just getting her calm again when I came away. We won't disturb her now."

"How is your sister, sir?" asked Billy. "Isn't she feeling the strain rather?"

"No, she is standing it wonderfully. In fact," Scott hesitated momentarily, "I believe that in helping Dinah, she has found herself again."

"Do you really?" said Billy. "Then I do hope for her sake that Dinah will buck up and get well."

"Thanks, old chap." Scott held out a friendly hand. "I'm sorry you're having such a rotten time. Come along to me any time when you're feeling bored! I shall be only too pleased when I'm at liberty."

"You're a brick, sir," said Billy. "And I say, you'll send for me, won't you, if—if—" He broke off. "You know, as I said before, Dinah and I are pals," he ended wistfully.

"Of course I will, lad. Of course I will." Scott wrung his hand hard. "But we'll pull her through, please God! We must pull her through."

"If anyone can, you will," said Billy with conviction.

Like Dinah, he had caught a glimpse in that brief conversation of the soul that inhabited that weak and puny form.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE WAY BACK

It was three days later that Dinah began at last the long and weary pilgrimage back again. Almost against her will she turned her faltering steps up the steep ascent; for she was too tired for any sustained effort. Only that something seemed to be perpetually drawing her she would not have been moved to make the effort at all. For she was so piteously weak that the bare exertion of opening her eyes was almost more than she could accomplish. But ever the unknown influence urged her, very gently but very persistently, never passive, never dormant, but always drawing her as by an invisible cord back to the world of sunshine and tears that seemed so very far away from the land of shadows in which she wandered.

All active suffering had left her, and she would fain have been at peace; but the hand that clasped hers would not be denied. The motherly voice that had calmed the wildest fantasies of her fevered brain spoke now to her with tenderest encouragement; the love that surrounded her drew her, uplifted her, sustained her. And gradually, as she crept back from the shadows, she came to lean upon this love as upon a sure support, to count upon it as her own exclusive possession—a wonderful new gift that had come to her out of the darkness.

She still welcomed her friend Scott at her bedside, but very curiously she had grown a little shy in his presence. She could not forget that dream of hers, and for a long time she was haunted by the dread that he had in some way come to know of it. Though the steady eyes never held anything but the utmost kindness and sympathy, she was half afraid to meet them lest they should look into her heart and see the vision she had seen. She never called him Mr. Greatheart now.

With Isabel, beloved nurse and companion, she was completely at her ease. A great change had come over Isabel—such a change as turns the bare earth into a garden of spring when the bitter winter is past at last. All the ice-bound bitterness had been swept utterly away, and in its place there blossomed such a wealth of mother-love as transformed her completely.

She spent herself with the most lavish devotion in Dinah's service. There was not a wish that she expressed that was not swiftly and abundantly satisfied. Night and day she was near her, ignoring all Biddy's injunctions to rest, till the old woman, seeing the light that had dawned in the shadowed eyes, left her to take her own way in peace. She hovered in the background, always ready in case her mistress's new-found strength should fail. But Isabel did not need her care. All her being was concentrated upon the task of bringing Dinah back to life, and she thought of nothing else, meeting the strain with that strength which comes in great emergencies to all.

And as she gradually succeeded in her task, a great peace descended upon her, such as she had never known before. Biddy sometimes gazed in amazement at the smooth brow and placid countenance at Dinah's bedside.

"Sure, the young lady's been a blessing straight from the Almighty," she said to Scott.

"I think so too, Biddy," he made quiet answer.

He was much less in the sick-room now that Dinah's need of him had passed. He sometimes wondered if she even knew how many hours he had formerly spent there. He visited her every day, and it was to him that the task fell of telling her that the de Vignes had arranged to leave her in their charge.

"We have your father's permission," he said, when her brows drew together with a troubled expression. "You see, it is quite impossible to move you at present, and they must be getting home. Billy is to go with them if you think you can be happy alone with us."

She put out her little wasted hand. "I could be happy with you anywhere," she said simply. "But it doesn't seem right."

"Of course it is right," he made quiet reply. "In fact, if you ask me, I think it is our business rather than anyone else's to get you well again."

She flushed in quick embarrassment. "Oh, please, you mustn't put it like that. And I have been such a trouble to everyone ever since."

He smiled at her very kindly. "Biddy says you are a blessing from the Almighty, and I quite agree with her. It is settled then? You are content to stay with us until we take you home?"

Her hand was clasped in his, but she did not meet his look. "Oh, much more than content," she said, her voice very low. "Only—"

"Only?" he said gently.

She made an effort to lift her eyes, but dropped them again instantly. "It will make it much harder to go home," she said.

She thought he sounded somewhat grim as he said, "There is no need to meet troubles half-way, you know. You won't be strong enough for the journey for some time to come."

"I wish I could stay just as I am now," she told him tremulously, "for ever and ever and ever."

"Ah!" he said, with a faint sigh. "It is not given to any of us to bask in the sun for long."

And so, two days after, the de Vignes paid a state visit of farewell to Dinah, now pronounced out of danger but still pitiably weak,—so weak that she cried when the Colonel bade her be a good girl and get well enough to come home as soon as possible, so as not to be a burden to these kind friends of hers longer than she need.

Lady Grace's kiss was chilly and perfunctory. "I also hope you will get well quickly, Dinah," she said, "as I believe Mr. Studley and his sister are staying on mainly on your account. Sir Eustace, I understand, is returning very shortly, and I have asked him to join our house-party."

"Good-bye, dear!" murmured Rose, bending her smiling lips to kiss Dinah's forehead. "I am sorry your good time has had such a tragic end. I was hoping that you might be allowed to come to the Hunt Ball, but I am afraid that is out of the question now. Sir Eustace will be sorry too. He says you are such an excellent little dancer."

"Good-bye!" said Dinah, swallowing her tears.

She wept unrestrainedly when Billy bade her a bluff and friendly farewell, and he was practically driven from the room by Isabel; who then returned to her charge, gathered her close in her arms, and sat with her so, rocking her gently till gradually her agitation subsided.

"Do forgive me!" Dinah murmured at last, clinging round her neck.

To which Isabel made answer in that low voice of hers that so throbbed with tenderness whenever she spoke to her. "Dear child, there is nothing to forgive. You are tired and worn out. I know just how you feel. But never mind—never mind! Forget it all!"

"I know I am a burden," whispered Dinah, clinging closer.

Isabel's lips pressed her forehead. "My darling," she said, "you are such a burden as I could not bear to be without."

That satisfied Dinah for the time; but it was not the whole of her trouble, and presently, still clasped close to Isabel's heart, she gave hesitating utterance to the rest.

"It would have been—so lovely—to have gone to the Hunt Ball. I should like to dance with—with Sir Eustace again. Is he—is he really going to stay with the de Vignes?"

"I don't know, dear. Very possibly not." Isabel's voice held a hint of constraint though her arms pressed Dinah comfortingly close. "He will please himself when the time comes no doubt."

Dinah did not pursue the subject, but her mind was no longer at rest. She wondered how she could have forgotten Sir Eustace for so long, and now that she remembered him she was all on fire with the longing to see him again. Rose had spoken so possessively, so confidently, of him, as though—almost as though—he had become her own peculiar property during the long dark days in which Dinah had been wandering in another world.

Something in Dinah hotly and fiercely resented this attitude. She yearned to know if it were by any means justified. She could not, would not, believe that he had suffered himself to fall like other men a victim to Rose's wiles. He was so different from all others, so superbly far above all those other captives. And had she not heard him laugh and call Rose machine-made?

A great restlessness began to possess her. She felt she must know what had been happening during her absence from the field. She must know if Rose had succeeded in adding yet another to her long list of devoted admirers. She felt that if this were so, she could never, never forgive her. But it was not possible. She was sure—she was sure it was not possible.

Sir Eustace was not the man to grovel at any woman's feet. She recalled the arrogance of his demeanour even in his moments of greatest tenderness. She recalled the magnetic force of his personality, his overwhelming mastery. She recalled the strong holding of his arms, thrilled yet again to the burning intensity of his kisses.

No, no! He had never stooped to become one of Rose's adorers. If he had ever flirted with her, he had done it out of boredom. She was beautiful—ah yes, Rose was beautiful; but Dinah was quite convinced she had no brains. And Eustace would never seriously consider a woman without brains.

Seriously! But then had he ever taken her into his serious consideration either? Had he not rather been at pains to make her understand that what had passed between them was no more than a game to which no serious consequences were attached? She had caught his fancy, his passing fancy, and now was not her turn over? Had he not laughed and gone his way?

She chafed terribly at the thought, and ever the longing to see him again grew within her till she did not know how to hide it from those about her.

In the evening her temperature rose, and the doctor was dissatisfied with her. She passed a restless night, and was considerably weaker in the morning.

"There is something on her mind," the doctor said to Isabel. "See if you can find out what it is!"

But it was Scott who succeeded with the utmost gentleness in discovering the trouble. He came in late in the morning and sat down beside her for a few minutes.

"I have been writing letters for my brother," he said in his quiet way, "or I should have called for news of you sooner. Isabel tells me you have had a bad night."

Dinah's face was flushed and her eyes very bright. "I heard the dance-music in the distance," she said nervously. "It—it made me want to go and dance."

"I am sorry it disturbed you," he said gently. "It was only that then? You weren't really troubled about anything?"

She hesitated, then, meeting the kindness of his look, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She turned her head away in silence.

He leaned towards her. "Is there anything you want?" he said. "Tell me what it is! I will get it for you if it is humanly possible."

"I know—I know!" faltered Dinah, and hid her face in the pillow.

He waited a moment or two, then laid a very gentle hand upon her dark head. "Don't cry, little one!" he said softly. "Tell me what it is!"

"I can't," murmured Dinah.

"You wanted to go and dance," said Scott sympathetically. "Was it just that?"

"Not—just—that!" she whispered forlornly.

"I thought not. You were wanting something more than that. What was it?"

She tried not to tell him. She would have given almost all she had to keep silence on the subject; but somehow she had to speak. Under the pressure of that kind hand, she could not maintain her silence any longer.

"I was thinking of—of your brother," she told him with tears. "I was wondering if—if he were dancing, and—and I not there!"

It was out at last, and she hid her face in overwhelming shame because she had given him a glimpse of her secret heart which none had ever seen before. She wondered with anguish what he thought of her, if she had forfeited his good opinion of her for ever, if indeed he would ever speak to her with kindness again.

And then very quietly he did speak, and in a moment all her anxiety was gone. "He may have been dancing," he said. "But I believe he has been very bored ever since the weather broke. I wonder if he might come and see you. Would it be too much for you? Should you mind?"

"Mind!" Dinah's tears were gone in a flash. She turned shining eyes upon him. "But would he come?" she said, with sudden misgiving. "Wouldn't that bore him too?"

Scott smiled at her in a way that set her mind wholly at rest. "No, I think not," he said. "When shall he come? This evening?"

Dinah slipped a confiding hand into his. She felt that now Scott knew and was not scandalized, there was no further need for embarrassment. "Oh, just any time," she said. "But hadn't I better get up? It would look better, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know about that," said Scott. "You had better ask the doctor."

Dinah's face flushed red. "Need the doctor know?" she asked him shyly. "I am—so afraid of his saying I am well enough to go home. And that—that will end everything."

"He shan't say that," Scott promised, still smiling in the fashion that so warmed her heart. "I will drop him a hint."

"Oh, you are good!" Dinah said very earnestly. "I think you are the kindest man I have ever met."

He laughed at that. "My dear, it is easy to be kind to you," he said.

"I'm sure I don't know why," she protested. "I'm getting very spoilt and selfish."

He patted her hand gently and laid it down. "You are—just you," he said, and rising with the words rather abruptly he left her.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE LIGHTS OF A CITY

"May I come in?" said Sir Eustace.

He stood in the doorway, a gigantic figure to Dinah's unaccustomed eyes, and looked in upon her with a careless smile on his handsome face.

"Oh, please do!" she said.

She was lying on a couch under a purple rug belonging to Isabel. Very fragile and weak she looked, but her face was flushed and eager, her eyes alight with welcome. She thought he had never looked so splendid, so godlike, as at that moment. She wanted to hold out both her arms to him and be borne upward to Olympus in his embrace.

He came forward with his easy carriage and stood beside her. His smile was one of kindly indulgence. He looked down at her as he might have looked upon an infant.

An uneasy sense of her own insignificance went through Dinah. She could not remember that he had ever regarded her thus before. A faint, faint throb of resentment also pulsed through her. His attitude was so suggestive of the mere casual acquaintance. Surely—surely he had not forgotten!

"Won't you sit down?" she asked in a small voice that was quite unconsciously formal.

He seated himself in the chair that had been placed at her side. "So they have left you behind to be mended, have they?" he said. "I hope it is a satisfactory process, is it?"

She had meant to give him her hand, but as he did not seem to expect it she refrained from doing so. A great longing to cover her face and burst into tears took possession of her; she resisted it frantically, with all her strength.

"Oh yes, I am getting better, thank you," she said, in a voice that quivered in spite of her. "I am afraid I have been a great nuisance to everybody. I am sure the de Vignes thought so; and—and—I expect you do too."

She could not keep the tears from springing to her eyes, strive as she would. He was so different—so different. He might have been a total stranger, sitting there beside her.

Yet as he looked at her, she felt something of the old quick thrill; for the blue eyes regarded her with a slightly warmer interest as he said, "I can't answer for the de Vignes of course, but it doesn't seem to me that either they or I have had much cause for complaint. I shouldn't fret about that if I were you."

She commanded herself with an effort. "I don't. Only it isn't nice to feel a burden to anyone, is it? You wouldn't like it, would you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, with his easy arrogance. "I think I should expect to be waited on if I were ill. You've had rather a bad time, I'm afraid. But you haven't missed much. The weather has been villainous."

"I've missed all the dances," said Dinah, stifling a sob.

He began to smile. "I wish I had. I haven't enjoyed one of them."

That comforted her a little. At least Rose had not scored an unqualified victory! "You've been bored?" she asked.

"Horribly bored," said Sir Eustace. "There's been no fun for anyone since the weather broke."

She gathered her courage in both hands. "And so you're going home?" she said, and lay in quivering dread of his answer.

He did not make one immediately. He seemed to be considering the matter. "There doesn't seem to be much point in staying on," he said finally, "unless things improve."

"But they will improve," said Dinah quickly. "At least—at least they ought to."

"A fortnight of bad weather isn't particularly encouraging," he remarked.

"Of course it isn't! It's horrid," she agreed. "But every day makes it less likely that it will last much longer. And I expect it's much worse in England," she added.

"I wonder," said Sir Eustace. "There's the hunting anyway."

"Oh no; it would freeze directly you got there," she said, with a shaky little laugh. "And then you would wish you had stayed here."

"I could shoot," said Sir Eustace.

"And there is the Hunt Ball, isn't there?" said Dinah with more assurance.

He looked at her keenly. "What Hunt Ball?"

She met his eyes with a faint challenge in her own. "I heard you were going to stay with the de Vignes. They always go to the Hunt Ball every year."

"Do you go?" asked Sir Eustace.

She shook her head. "No. I never go anywhere."

She saw his eyes soften unexpectedly as he said, "Then there isn't much inducement for me to go, is there?"

Her heart gave a wild throb of half-incredulous delight. She made a small movement of one hand towards him, and quite suddenly she found it grasped in his. He bent to her with a laugh in his eyes.

"Shall we go on with the game,—Daphne?" he whispered. "Are you well enough?"

Her eyes answered him. Was he not irresistible? "Oh," she whispered, "I thought—I thought you had forgotten."

He glanced round, as if to make sure that they were alone, and then swiftly bent and kissed her quivering lips. "But the past has no claims," he said. "Remember, it is a game without consequences!"

She laughed very happily, clasping his hand. "I was afraid it was all over," she said. "But it isn't, is it?"

He laughed too under his breath. "I am under the very strictest orders not to excite you," he said, passing the question by. "If the doctor were to come and feel your pulse now, there would be serious trouble. And I shouldn't be allowed within a dozen yards of you again for many a long day."

"What nonsense!" murmured Dinah. "Why, you have done me so much good that I feel almost well." She squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster. "Don't go away till I'm quite well!" she begged him wistfully. "We must have—one more dance."

His eyes kindled suddenly with that fire which she dared not meet. "I will grant you that," he said, "on condition that you promise—mind, you promise—not to run away afterwards."

His intensity embarrassed her, she knew not wherefore. "Why—why should I run away?" she faltered.

"You ran away last time," he said.

"Oh, that was only—only because I was afraid the Colonel might be angry with me," she murmured.

"Oh well, there is no Colonel to be angry now," he said. "It's a promise then, is it?"

But for some reason wholly undefined she hesitated. She felt as if she could not bring herself thus to cut off her own line of retreat. "No, I don't think I can quite promise that," she said, after a moment.

"You won't?" he said.

His tone warned her to reconsider her decision. "I—I'll tell you to-morrow," she said hastily.

"I may be gone by to-morrow," he said.

She looked up at him with swift daring. "Oh no, you won't," she said, with conviction. "Or if you are, you'll come back."

"How do you know that?" he demanded, frowning upon her while his eyes still gleamed with that lambent fire that made her half afraid.

She dropped her own. "There's someone coming," she whispered. "It doesn't matter, does it? I do know. Good-bye!"

She slipped her hand from his with a little secret sense of triumph; for though he had so arrogantly asserted himself she was conscious of a certain power over him which gave her confidence. She was firmly convinced in that moment that he would not go.

He rose to leave her as Isabel came softly into the room, and between the brother and sister there flashed a look that was curiously like the crossing of blades.

Isabel came straight to Dinah's side. "You must settle down now, dear child," she said, in that low, musical voice of hers that Dinah loved. "It is getting late, and you didn't sleep well last night."

Dinah smiled, and drew the hand that had so often smoothed her pillow to her cheek. But her eyes were upon Eustace, and she caught a parting gleam from his as with a gesture of farewell he turned away.

"I am much better," she said to Isabel later, as she composed herself to rest. "I feel as if I am going to sleep well."

Isabel stooped to kiss her. "Sleep is the best medicine in the world," she said.

"Do you sleep better now?" Dinah asked, detaining her.

Isabel hesitated for a second. "Oh yes, I sleep," she said then. "I am able to sleep now that you are safe, my darling."

Dinah clung to her. "I can't think what I would do without you," she murmured. "No one was ever so good to me before."

Isabel held her closely. "Don't you realize," she said fondly, "that you have been my salvation."

"Not—not really?" faltered Dinah.

"Yes, really." There was a throb of passion in Isabel's voice. "I have been a prisoner for years, but you—you, little Dinah,—have set me free. I am travelling forward again now—like the rest of the world." She paused a moment, and her arms clasped Dinah more closely still. "I do not think I have very far to go," she said, speaking very softly. "My night has been so long that I think the dawn cannot be far off now. God knows how I am longing for it."

"Oh, darling, don't—don't!" whispered Dinah piteously.

"I won't, dearest." Very tenderly Isabel kissed her again. "I didn't mean to distress you. Only I want you to know that you are just all the world to me—the main-spring of what life there is left to me. I shall never forgive myself for leading you away on that terrible Sunday, and causing you all this suffering."

"Oh, but I should have been home again by now if that hadn't happened," said Dinah quickly. "See what I should have missed! I'd far, far rather be ill with you than well at home."

"Yours isn't a happy home, sweetheart," Isabel said gently.

"Not very," Dinah admitted. "But being away makes it seem much worse. I have been so spoilt with you."

Isabel smiled. "I only wish I could keep you always, dear child."

Dinah drew a sharp breath. "Oh, if you only could!" she said.

Isabel pressed her to her heart, and laid her down. "I must get you back to bed, dear," she said. "We have talked too long already."

Late that night Isabel went softly to the door in answer to a low knock, and found Scott on the threshold.

She lifted a warning finger. "She is asleep."

"That's right," he said quietly. "I only came to say good night to you. Are you going to bed now?"

She looked at him with a faint smile in her shadowed eyes. "I daresay I shall go some time," she said; then seeing the concern in his eyes: "Don't worry about me, Stumpy dear. I don't sleep a great deal, you know; but I rest."

He took her arm and drew her gently outside the room. "I want you to take care of yourself now that she is safe," he said. "Will you try?"

The smile still lingered in her eyes. She bent her stately neck to kiss him. "Oh yes, dear; I shall be all right," she said. "It does me good to have the little one to think of."

"I know," he said. "But don't wear yourself out! Remember, you are not strong."

"Nothing I can do for her would be too much," she answered with quick feeling. "Think—think what she has done for me!"

"For us all," said Scott gently. "But all the same, dear, you can spare a little thought for yourself now." He hesitated momentarily, then: "I think Eustace would like to see more of you," he said, speaking with a touch of diffidence.

She made a sharp gesture of impatience. "Why did you send him to disturb the child's peace?"

"She wanted him," said Scott simply.

"Ah!" Isabel stood tense for a second. "And he?" she questioned.

"He was quite pleased to see her again," said Scott.

She grasped his arm suddenly. "Stumpy, don't let him break her heart!"

He met her look with steadfast eyes. "He shall not do that," he said, with inflexible resolution.

Her hold became a grip. "Can you prevent it? You know what he is"

"Oh yes, I know," very steadily Scott made answer. "But you needn't be afraid, Isabel. He shall not do that."

A measure of relief came into her drawn face. "Thank you, Stumpy," she said. "I was horribly afraid—when I saw him just now—and she, poor child, so innocently glad to have him!"

"You needn't be afraid," he reiterated. "Eustace is too much of a sportsman to amuse himself at the expense of an unsophisticated child like that."

Isabel suppressed a shiver. "I don't think he is so scrupulous as you imagine," she said. "We must watch, Stumpy; we must watch."

He patted her arm with his quiet smile. "And we mustn't let ourselves get over-anxious," he said. "Now go to bed, like a dear girl! You are looking absolutely worn out."

Her lips quivered as she smiled back. "At least you are getting better nights," she said.

"Yes, I sleep very well," he answered. "I want to know you are doing the same."

Her face shone as though reflecting the lights of a city seen from afar. "Oh yes, I sleep," she said. "And sometimes I dream that I have really found the peaks of Paradise. But before I reach the summit—I am awake."

He drew her to him, and kissed her. "It is better that you should wake, dear," he said.

She returned his kiss with tenderness, but her eyes were fixed and distant. "Some day the dream will come true, Stumpy," she said softly. "And I shall find him there where he has been waiting for me all these years."

"But not yet, Isabel," murmured Scott, and there was pleading in his voice.

She looked at him for a moment ere she turned to re-enter the room in which Dinah lay. "Not just yet," she answered softly. "Good night, dear! Good night!"

The strange light was still upon her face as she went, and Scott looked after her with a faint, wistful smile about his mouth. As he went to his own room, he passed his hand across his forehead with a gesture of unutterable weariness.



CHAPTER XXV

THE TRUE GOLD

The actual turning-point in Dinah's illness seemed to date from that brief interview with Sir Eustace. They had drawn her back half against her will from the land of shadows, but from that day her will was set to recover. The old elasticity came back to her, and with every hour her strength increased. The joy of life was hers once more. She was like a flower opening to the sun.

Sir Eustace presented himself every evening for admittance and sat with her for a little while. Isabel was generally present, and their conversation was in consequence of a strictly commonplace order; but the keen blue eyes told Dinah more than the proud lips ever uttered. She came to watch for that look which she could not meet, and though at times it sent a wild dart of fear through her, yet it filled her also with a rapture indefinable but unspeakably precious. She felt sure that he had never turned that look on Rose or any other girl. It was kept exclusively for her, and its fiery intensity thrilled her soul. It was the sign of a secret understanding between them which she believed none other suspected.

It was a somewhat terrible joy, for the man's strength had startled her more than once, but in moments of dread she reassured herself with the memory of his reiterated declaration that the magic bond that existed between them was no bond at all in reality—only a game without consequences. She would not look forward to the time when that game should be over. She was not looking forward at all, so sublimely happy was she in the present. The period of convalescence which to most patients is the hardest of all to bear was to her a dream of delight.

A week after the departure of the de Vignes she was well enough to be moved into Isabel's sitting-room, and here on that first day both Sir Eustace and Scott joined them at tea.

The weather had cleared again, and Sir Eustace came in from an afternoon's ski-ing attired in the white sweater in which Dinah always loved to see him. She lay on her couch and watched him with shining eyes, telling herself that no prince had ever looked more royal.

It was Scott who waited upon her, but she was scarcely aware of his presence. Even Isabel seemed to have faded into the background. She could think only of Eustace lounging near her in careless magnificence, talking in his deep voice of the day's sport.

"There are several new people arrived," he said, "both ancient and modern. The place was getting empty, but it has filled up again. There is to be a dance to-night," his eyes sought Dinah's. "I am going down presently to see if any of the new-comers have any talents worth cultivating."

She met his look with a flash of daring. "I wish you luck," she said.

He made her a bow. "You are very generous. But I scarcely expect any. My star has not been in the ascendant for a long time."

Scott uttered a laugh that sounded faintly derisive. "You'll have to make the best of the second best for once, my dear chap," he said. "You can't always have your cake iced."

Eustace glanced at him momentarily. "I am not you, Stumpy," he said. "The philosophy of the second best is only for those who have never tasted the best."

There was in his tone a touch of malice that caught Dinah very oddly, like the flick of a lash intended for another. She awoke very suddenly to the realization of Scott sitting near Isabel with the light shining on his pale face and small, colourless beard. How insignificant he looked! And yet the narrow shoulders had an independent set about them as though they were not without a certain strength.

The smile still lingered about his lips as he made quiet rejoinder. "It sometimes needs a philosopher to tell what is the best."

Eustace gave an impatient shrug. "The philosopher is not always a wise man," he observed briefly.

"But seldom an utter fool," returned Scott.

The elder brother's face was contemptuous as he said, "A philosopher may recognize what is best, but it is seldom within his reach."

"And so, being a philosopher, he does without it." Scott spoke thoughtfully; he was gazing straight before him.

Isabel suddenly leaned forward. "He is not always the loser, Stumpy," she said.

He looked at her. "Certainly a man can't lose what he has never had," he said.

"Every man has his chance once," she insisted.

"And—if he's a philosopher—he doesn't take it," laughed Eustace. "Don't you know, my dear Isabel, that that is the very cream and essence of philosophy?"

She gave him a swift look that was an open challenge. "What do you know of philosophy and the greater things of life?" she said.

He looked momentarily surprised. Dinah saw the ready frown gather on his handsome face; but before he could speak Scott intervened.

"How on earth did we get onto this abstruse subject?" he said easily. "Miss Bathurst will vote us all a party of bores, and with reason. What were we talking about before? Iced cake, wasn't it? Are you a cook Miss Bathurst?"

"I can make some kinds of cakes," Dinah said modestly, "but I like making pastry best. I often make sausage-rolls for Dad to take hunting."

"That sounds more amusing for him than for you," observed Eustace.

"Oh no, I love making them," she assured him. "And he always says he likes mine better than anyone's. But I'm not a particularly good cook really. Mother generally does that part, and I do all the rest."

"All?" said Isabel.

"Yes. You see, we can't afford to keep a servant," said Dinah. "And I groom Rupert—that's the hunter—too, when Billy isn't at home. I like doing that. He's such a beauty."

"Do you ever ride him?" asked Eustace.

She shook her head. "No. I'd love to, of course, but there's never any time. I can't spend as long as I like over grooming him because there are so many other things. But he generally looks very nice," she spoke with pride; "quite as nice as any of the de Vignes's horses."

"You must have a very busy time of it," said Scott.

"Yes." Dinah's bright face clouded a little. "I often wish I had more time for other things; but it's no good wishing. Anyway, I've had my time out here, and I shall never forget it."

"You must come out again with us," said Isabel.

Dinah beamed. "Oh, how I should love it!" she said. "But—" her face fell again—"I don't believe mother will ever spare me a second time."

"All right. I'll run away with you in the yacht," said Eustace. "Come for a trip in the summer!"

She looked at him with shining eyes. "It's not a bit of good thinking about it," she said. "But oh, how lovely it would be!"

He laughed, looking at her with that gleam in his eyes that she had come to know as exclusively her own. "Where there's a will, there's a way," he said. "If you have the will, you can leave the way to me."

She drew a quick breath. Her heart was beating rather fast. "All right," she said. "I'll come."

"Is it a promise?" said Eustace.

She shook her head instantly. "No. I never make promises. They have a way of spoiling things so."

"Exactly my own idea," he said. "Never turn a pleasure into a duty, or it becomes a burden at once. Well, I must go and make myself pretty for this evening's show. If I'm very bored, I shall come and sit out with you."

"Not to-night," said Isabel with quick decision. "Dinah is going to bed very soon."

"Really?" He stood by Dinah's couch, looking down at her with his faint supercilious smile. "Do you submit to that sort of tyranny?" he said.

She held up her hand to him. "It isn't tyranny. It is the very dearest kindness in the world. Don't you know the difference?"

He held the little, confiding hand a moment or two, and she felt his fingers close around it with a strength that seemed as if it encompassed her very soul. "There are two ways of looking at everything," he said. "But I shouldn't be too docile if I were you; not, that is, if you want to get any fun out of life. Remember, life is short."

He let her go with the words, straightened himself to his full, splendid height, and sauntered with regal arrogance to the door.

"I want you, Stumpy," he said, in passing. "There are one or two letters for you to deal with. You can come to my room while I dress."

"In that case, I had better say good night too," said Scott, rising.

"Oh no," said Dinah, with her quick smile. "You can come in and say good night to me afterwards—when I'm in bed. Can't he, Isabel?"

She had fallen into the habit of calling Isabel by her Christian name from hearing Scott use it. It had begun almost in delirium, and now it came so naturally that she never dreamed of reverting to the more formal mode of address.

Scott smiled in his quiet fashion, and turned to join his brother. "I will with pleasure," he said.

Eustace threw a mocking glance backwards. "It seems that philosophers rush in where mere ordinary males fear to tread," he observed. "Stumpy, allow me to congratulate you on your privileges!"

"Thanks, old chap!" Scott made answer in his tired voice. "But there is no occasion for the ordinary male to envy me my compensations."

"What did he mean by that?" said Dinah, as the door closed.

Isabel moved to her side and sat down on the edge of the couch. "Scott is very lonely, little one," she said.

"Is he?" said Dinah, wonderingly. "But—surely he must have lots of friends. He's such a dear."

Isabel smiled at her rather sadly. "Yes, everyone who knows him thinks that."

"Everyone must love him," protested Dinah. "Who could help it?"

"I wonder," said Isabel slowly, "if he will ever meet anyone who will love him best of all."

Dinah was suddenly conscious of a rush of blood to her face. She knew not wherefore, but she felt it beat in her temples and sing in her ears. "Oh, surely—surely!" she stammered in confusion.

Isabel looked beyond her. "You know, Dinah," she said, her voice very low, "Scott is a man with an almost infinite greatness of soul. I don't know if you realize it. I have thought sometimes that you did. But there are very few—very few—who do."

"I know he is great," whispered Dinah. "I told him so almost—almost the first time I saw him."

Isabel's smile was very tender. She stooped and gathered Dinah to her bosom. "Oh, my dear," she murmured, "never prefer the tinsel to the true gold! He is far, far the greatest man I know. And you—you will never meet a greater."

Dinah clung to her in quick responsiveness. Her strange agitation was subsiding, but she could feel the blood yet pulsing in her veins. "I know it," she whispered. "I am sure of it. He is very much to you, dear, isn't he?"

"For years he has been my all," Isabel said. "Listen a moment! I will tell you something. In the first dreadful days of my illness, I was crazy with trouble, and—and they bound me to keep me from violence. I have never forgotten it. I never shall. Then—he came. He was very young at that time, only twenty-three. He had his life before him, and mine—mine was practically over. Yet he gave up everything—everything for my sake. He took command; he banished all the horrible people who had taken possession of me. He gave me freedom, and he set himself to safe-guard me. He brought me home. He was with me night and day, or if not actually with me, within call. He and Biddy between them brought me back. They watched me, nursed me, cared for me. Whenever my trouble was greater than I could bear, he was always there to help me. He never left me; and gradually he became so necessary to me that I couldn't contemplate life without him. I have been terribly selfish." A low sob checked her utterance for a moment, and Dinah's young arms tightened. "I let my grief take hold of me to the exclusion of everything else. I didn't see—I didn't realize—the sacrifice he was making. For years I took it all as a right, living in my fog of misery and blind to all beside. But now—now at last—thanks to you, little one, whom I nearly killed—my eyes are open once more. The fog has rolled away. No, I can never be happy. I am of those who wait. But I will never again, God helping me, deprive others of happiness. Scott shall live his own life now. His devotion to me must come to an end. My greatest wish in life now is that he may meet a woman worthy of him, who will love him as he deserves to be loved, before I climb the peaks of Paradise and find my beloved in the dawning." Isabel's voice sank. She pressed Dinah close against her heart. "It will not be long," she whispered. "I have had a message that there is no mistaking, I know it will not be long. But oh, darling, I do want to see him happy first."

Dinah was crying softly. She could find no words to utter.

So for awhile they clung together, the woman who had suffered and come at last through bitter tribulation into peace, and the child whose feet yet halted on the threshold of the enchanted country that the other had long since traversed and left behind.

Nothing further passed between them. Isabel had said her say, and for some reason Dinah was powerless to speak. She could think of no words to utter, and deep in her heart she was half afraid to break the silence. That sudden agitation of hers had left her oddly confused and embarrassed. She shrank from pursuing the matter further.

Yet for a long time that night she lay awake pondering, wondering. Certainly Scott was different from all other men, totally, undeniably different. He seemed to dwell on a different plane. She could not grasp what it was about him that set him thus apart. But what Isabel had said showed her very clearly that the spirit that dwelt behind that unimposing exterior was a force that counted, and could hold its own against odds.

She slept at last with the thought of him still present in her mind. And in her dreams the vision of Greatheart in his shining armour came to her again, filling her with a happiness which even sleeping she did not dare to analyse, scarcely to contemplate.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE CALL OF APOLLO

Dinah's strength came back to her in leaps and bounds, and three weeks after the de Vignes's departure she was almost herself again. The season was drawing to a close. The holidays were over, and English people were turning homeward. Very reluctantly Isabel had to admit that her charge was well enough for the journey back. Mrs. Bathurst wrote in an insistent strain, urging that the time had come for her to return, and no further excuse could be invented for keeping her longer.

They decided to return themselves and take Dinah to her home, Isabel having determined to make the acquaintance of the redoubtable Mrs. Bathurst, and persuade her to spare her darling to them again in the summer. The coming parting was hard to face, so hard that Dinah could not bear to speak of it. She shed a good many tears in private, as Isabel was well aware; but she never willingly made any reference to the ordeal she so dreaded.

The only time she voluntarily broached the subject was when she entreated to be allowed to go down to the last dance that was to be held in the hotel. It chanced that this was fixed for the night before their own departure, and Isabel demurred somewhat; for though Dinah had shaken off most of her invalid habits, she was still far from robust.

"You will be so tired in the morning, darling," she protested gently, while Dinah knelt beside her, earnestly pleading. "You will get that tiresome side-ache, and you won't be fit to travel."

"I shall—I shall," Dinah assured her. "Oh, please, dear, just this once—just this once—let me have this one more fling! I shall never have another chance. I'm sure I never shall."

Isabel's hand stroked the soft dark hair caressingly. She saw that Dinah was very near to tears. "I don't believe I ought to say Yes, dear child," she said. "You know I hate to deny you anything. But if it were to do you harm, I should never forgive myself."

"It couldn't! It shan't!" declared Dinah, almost incoherent in her vehemence. "It isn't as if I wanted to dance every dance. I'd come and sit out with you in between. And if I got tired, you could take me away. I would go directly if you said so. Really I would."

She was hard to resist, kneeling there with her arms about Isabel and her bright eyes lifted. Isabel took the sweet face between her hands and kissed it.

"Let me ask Scott what he thinks!" she said. "I want to give in to you, Dinah darling, but it's against my judgment. If it is against his judgment too, will you be content to give it up?"

"Oh, of course," said Dinah instantly. She was confident that Scott—that kind and gentle friend of hers—would deny her nothing. It seemed almost superfluous to ask him.

The words had scarcely left her lips when his quiet knock came at the sitting-room door, and he entered.

She looked round at him with a smile of quick welcome. "I'll give it up in a minute if he says so," she said.

Isabel turned in her chair. "Come here, Stumpy!" she said. "We want your advice. We are talking about the dance to-night. Dinah has set her heart on going. Would it—do you think it would—do her any harm?"

Scott came up to them in his halting way. He looked at Dinah pressed close to his sister's side, and his smile was very kindly as he said, "Poor little Cinderella! It's hard lines; but, you know, the doctor's last words to you were a warning against over-exerting yourself."

"But I shouldn't," she assured him eagerly. "Really, truly, I shouldn't! I walked all the way to the village with you yesterday, and wasn't a bit tired—or hardly a bit—when I got back."

"You looked jaded to death," he said.

"I am afraid it is thumbs down," said Isabel, a touch of regret in her voice.

"Oh no,—no!" entreated Dinah. "Mr. Studley, please—please say I may go! I promise I won't dance too much. I promise I'll stop directly I'm tired."

"My dear child," Scott said, "it would be sheer madness for you to attempt to dance at all. Isabel," he turned to his sister with most unusual sharpness, "how can you tantalize her in this way? Say No at once! You know perfectly well she isn't fit for it."

Isabel made no attempt to argue the point. "You hear, Dinah?" she said.

A quick throb of anger went through Dinah. She disengaged herself quickly, and stood up. "Mr. Studley," she said in a voice that quivered, "it's not right—it's not fair! How can you know what is good for me? And even if you did, what—what right—" She broke off, trembling and holding to Isabel's chair to steady herself.

Scott's eyes, very level, very kind, were looking straight at her in a fashion that checked the hot words on her lips. "My child, no right whatever," he said. "I have no more power to control your actions than the man in the moon. But if you want my approval to your scheme, I can't give it you. I don't approve, and because I don't, I tell Isabel that she ought to refuse to carry it through. I have no right to control her either, but I think my opinion means something to her. I hope it does at least."

He looked at Isabel, but she said nothing. Only she put her arm about Dinah as she stood.

There followed a few moments of very difficult silence; then abruptly the mutiny went out of Dinah's face and attitude.

"I'm horrid," she said, in a voice half-choked. "Forgive me! You—you shouldn't spoil me so."

"Oh, don't, please!" said Scott. "I am infernally sorry. I know what it means to you."

He took out his cigarette-case and turned away with a touch of embarrassment. She saw that for some reason he was moved.

Impulsively she left Isabel and came to him. "Don't think any more about it!" she said. "I'll go to bed and be good."

"You always are," said Scott, faintly smiling.

"No, no, I'm not! What a fib! You know I'm not. But I'm going to be good this time—so that you shall have something nice to remember me by." Dinah's voice quivered still, but she managed to smile.

He gave her a quick look. "You will always be the pleasantest memory I have," he said.

The words were quietly spoken, so quietly that they sounded almost matter-of-fact. But Dinah flushed with pleasure, detecting the sincerity in his voice.

"It's very nice of you to say that," she said, "especially as I deserve it so little. Thank you, Mr.—Scott!" She uttered the name timidly. She had never ventured to use it before.

He held out his hand to her. "Oh, drop the prefix!" he said. "Call me Stumpy like the rest of the world!"

But Dinah shook her head with vehemence. There were tears standing in her eyes, but she smiled through them. "I will not call you Stumpy!" she declared. "It doesn't suit you a bit. I never even think of you by that name. It—it is perfectly ludicrous applied to you!"

"Some people think I am ludicrous," observed Scott.

His hand grasped hers firmly for a moment, and let it go. The steadfast friendliness in his eyes shone out like a beacon. And there came to Dinah a swift sense of great and uplifting pride at the thought that she numbered this man among her friends.

The moment passed, but the warmth at her heart remained. She went back to Isabel, and slipped down into the shelter of her arm, feeling oddly shy and also inexplicably happy. Her disappointment had shrunk to a negligible quantity. She even wondered at herself for having cared so greatly about so trifling a matter.

There came the firm tread of a man's feet outside the door, and it swung open. Eustace entered with his air of high confidence.

"Ah, Stumpy, there you are! I want you. Well, Miss Bathurst, what about to-night?"

She faced him bravely from Isabel's side. "I've promised to go to bed early, as usual," she said.

"What? You're not dancing?" She saw his ready frown. "Well, you will come and look on anyway. Isabel, you must show for once."

He spoke imperiously. Isabel looked up. "I am sorry, Eustace. It is out of the question," she said coldly. "Both Dinah and I are retiring early in preparation for to-morrow."

He bit his lip. "This is too bad. Miss Bathurst, don't you want to come down? It's for the last time."

Dinah hesitated, and Scott came quietly to her rescue.

"She is being prudent against her own inclination, old chap. Don't make it hard for her!"

"What a confounded shame!" said Eustace.

"No, no, it isn't!" said Dinah. "It is quite right. I am not going to think any more about it."

He laughed with a touch of mockery. "Which means you will probably think about it all night. Well, you will have the reward of virtue anyhow, which ought to be very satisfying. Come along, Stumpy! I want you to catch the post."

He bore his brother off with him, and Dinah went rather wistfully to help Biddy pack. She had done right, she knew; but it was difficult to stifle the regret in her heart. She had so longed for that one last dance, and it seemed to her that she had treated Sir Eustace somewhat shabbily also. She was sure that he was displeased, and the thought of it troubled her. For she had almost promised him that last dance.

"Arrah thin, Miss Dinah dear, don't ye look so sad at all!" counselled Biddy. "Good times pass, but there's always good times to come while ye're young. And it's the bonny face ye've got on ye. Sure, there'll be a fine wedding one of these days. There's a prince looking for ye, or me name's not Biddy Maloney."

Dinah tried to smile, but her heart was heavy. She could not share Biddy's cheery belief in the good times to come, and she was quite sure that no prince would ever come her way.

Sir Eustace—that king among men—might think of her sometimes, but not seriously, oh no, not seriously. He had so many other interests. It was only her dancing that drew him, and he would never have another opportunity of enjoying that.

She rested in the afternoon at Isabel's desire, but she did not sleep. Some teasing sprite had set a waltz refrain running in her brain, and it haunted her perpetually. She went down to the vestibule with Isabel for tea, and here Scott joined them; but Sir Eustace did not put in an appearance. In their company she sought to be cheerful, and in a measure succeeded; but the thought of the morrow pressed upon her. In another brief twenty-four hours this place where she had first known the wonder and the glory of life would know her no more. In two days she would be back in the old bondage, chained once more to the oar, with the dread of her mother ever present in her heart, however fair the world might be.

She could keep her depression more or less at bay in the presence of her friends, but when later she went to her room to prepare for dinner something like desperation seized her. How was she going to bear it? One last wild fling would have helped her, but this inaction made things infinitely worse, made things intolerable.

While she dressed, she waged a fierce struggle against her tears. She knew that Isabel would be greatly distressed should she detect them, and to hurt Isabel seemed to her the acme of selfish cruelty. She would not give way! She would not!

And then—suddenly she heard a step in the corridor, and her heart leapt. Well she knew that careless, confident tread! But what was he doing there? Why had he come to her door?

With bated breath she stood and listened. Yes, he had paused. In a moment she heard a rustle on the floor. A screw of paper appeared under the door as though blown in by a wandering wind. Then the careless feet retreated again, and she thought she heard him whistling below his breath.

Eagerly she swooped forward and snatched up the note. Her hands shook so that she could scarcely open it. Trembling, she stood under the light to read it.

It was headed in a bold hand: "To Daphne." And below in much smaller writing she read: "Come to the top of the stairs when the band plays Simple Aveu, and leave the rest to me.

"APOLLO."

A wild thrill went through her. But could she? Dared she? Had she not practically promised Isabel that she would go to bed?

Yet how could she go, and leave this direct invitation, which was almost a command, unanswered? And it was only one dance—only one dance! Would it be so very wrong to snatch just that one?

The thought of Scott came to her and the look of sincerity in his eyes when he had told her that she would always be the pleasantest memory he had. But she thrust it from her almost fiercely. Ah no, no, no! She could not let him deprive her thus of this one last gaiety. Apollo had called her. It only remained for her to obey.

She dressed in a fever of excitement, and hid the note—that precious note—in her bosom. She would meet him at dinner, and he would look for an answer. How should she convey it? And oh, what answer should she give?

Looking back afterwards, it seemed to her that Fate had pressed her hard that night,—so hard that resistance was impossible. When she was dressed in the almost childishly simple muslin she looked herself in the eyes and fancied that there was something in her face that she had never seen there before. It was something that pleased her immensely giving her a strangely new self-confidence. She did not wot that it was the charm of her coming womanhood that had burst into sudden flower.

At the last moment she cast all her scruples away from her, and snatched up a slip of paper.

"I will be there. Daphne," were the words she wrote, and though her conscience smote her as she did it, she stifled it fiercely. Had she not promised him that one dance long ago?

She met him at dinner with a face of smiling unconcern. The new force within had imbued her with a wondrous strength. She exulted in the thought of her power over him, transient though she knew it to be. Deep down in her heart she was afraid, yet was she wildly daring. It was her last night, and she was utterly reckless.

She left her note in his hand with the utmost coolness when she bade him good night in the vestibule. She bade good night to Scott also, but she met his eyes for no more than a second; and then she had to stifle afresh the sharp pang at her heart.

She went away up the stairs with Isabel, leaving them smoking over their coffee, leaving also the dreamy strains of the band, the gay laughter and movement of the happy crowd that drifted towards the ballroom.

Isabel accompanied her to her room. "You are a dear, good child," she said tenderly, as she held her for a last kiss. "I shall never forget how sweetly you gave up the thing you wanted so much."

Dinah clung to her fast for a moment or two, and her hold was passionate. "Oh, don't praise me for that!" she whispered into Isabel's neck. "I am not good at all. I am very bad."

She almost tore herself free a second later, and Isabel, divining that any further demonstration from her would cause a breakdown, bade her a loving good night and went away.

Dinah stood awhile struggling for self-control. She had been perilously near to baring her soul to Isabel in those moments of tenderness. Even now the impulse urged her to run after her and tell her of the temptation to which she was yielding. She forced it down with clenched hands, telling herself over and over that it was her last chance, her last chance, and she must not lose it. And so at length it passed; and with it passed also the pricks of conscience that had so troubled her. She emerged from the brief struggle with a sense of mad triumph. The spirit of adventure had entered into her, and she no longer paused to count the cost.

"I expect I shall be sorry in the morning," she said to herself. "But to-night—oh, to-night—nothing matters except Apollo!"

She whisked to the door and set it ajar. The dance-music drew her, drew her, like the voice of a siren. For that one night she would live again. She would feel his arm about her and the magic in her brain. Already her feet yearned to the alluring rhythm. She leaned against the door-post, and gave herself up to her dream. Yet once more the wine of the gods was held to her lips. She would drink deeply, deeply.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE GOLDEN MAZE

Softly the strains of Simple Aveu floated along the corridor. It came like fairy music, now near, now far, haunting as a dream, woven through and through with the gold of Romance.

Someone was coming along the passage with the easy swing of the born dancer, and pressed against her door-post in the shadows, another born dancer awaited him with a wildly throbbing heart.

The die was cast, and there was no going back. She heard the deep voice humming the magic melody as he came. In a moment the superb figure came into sight, moving with that royal ease of carriage so characteristic and so wonderful.

He drew near. He spied the small white figure lurking in the dimness. With a low laugh he opened his arms to her.

And then there came to Dinah, not for the first time, a strange, wholly indefinable misgiving. It was a warning so insistent that she suddenly and swiftly drew back, as if she would flee into the room behind her.

But he was too quick for her. He caught her on the threshold. "Oh no, no!" he laughed. "That's not playing the game." He drew her to him, holding her two wrists. "Daphne! Daphne!" he said. "Still running away? Do you call that fair?"

She did not resist him, for the moment she felt his touch she knew herself a captive. The magic force of his personality had caught her; but she did not give herself wholly to him. She stood and palpitated in his hold, her head bent low.

"I—I'm not running away," she told him breathlessly. "I was just—just coming. But—but—shan't we be seen? Your brother—"

"What?" He was stooping over her; she felt his breath upon her neck. "Oh, Scott! Surely you're not afraid of Scott, are you? You needn't be. I've sent him off to write some letters. He'll be occupied for an hour at least. Come! Come! You promised. And we're wasting time."

There was a subtle caressing note in his voice. It thrilled her as she stood, and ever the soft music drifted on around them, pulsing with a sweetness almost too intense to be borne.

He held her with the hold of a conqueror. She was quivering from head to foot, but all desire to free herself was gone. Still she would not raise her face.

Panting, she spoke. "Yes, we—we are wasting time. Let us go!"

He laughed above her head—a low laugh of absolute assurance. "Are you too shy to look at me,—Daphne?"

She laughed also very tremulously. "I think I am—just at present. Let us dance first anyway! Must we go down to the salon? Couldn't we dance in the corridor?"

His arm was round her. He led her down the passage. "No, no! We will go down. And afterwards—"

"Afterwards," she broke in breathlessly, "we will just peep at the moonlight on the mountains, and then I must come back."

"I will show you something better than the moonlight on the mountains," said Sir Eustace.

She did not ask him what he meant, though her whole being was strung to a tense expectancy. He had brought her once more to the heights of Olympus, and each moment was full of a vivid life that had to be lived to the utmost. She lacked the strength to look forward; the present was too overwhelming. It was almost more than she could bear.

They reached the head of the stairs. His arm tightened about her. She descended as though upon wings. Passing through the vestibule, her feet did not seem to touch the ground. And then like a golden maze the ballroom received them.

Before she knew it, they were among the dancers and the magic of her dream had merged into reality. She closed her eyes, for the glare of light and moving figures dazzled her, and gave herself up to the rapture of that one splendid dance. Her heart was beating wildly, as though it would choke her. A curious thirst that yet was part of her delight made her throat burn. A weakness that exulted in the man's supporting strength held her bound and entranced by such an ecstasy as she had never known before. She laughed, a gurgling laugh through panting lips. She wondered whether he realized that she was floating through the air, held up by his arm alone above the glitter and the turmoil all around them. She wondered too how soon they would find their way to the heart of that golden maze, and what nameless treasure awaited them there. For that treasure was for them, and them alone, she never doubted. It was the gift of the gods, bestowed upon no others in all that merry crowd.

The magic deepened and grew within her. She felt that the climax was drawing near. He would not dance to a finish, she knew, and already the music was quickening. She was too giddy, too spent had she but known it, to open her eyes. Only by instinct did she know that he was bearing her, sure and swift as a swallow, to the curtained recess whither he had led her twice before. This, she told herself, this was the heart of the maze. All things began and ended here. Her lips quivered and tingled. She would never escape him now. He had her firmly in the net. Nor did she seriously want to escape. Only she felt desperately afraid of him. His strength, his determination, above all, his silence, sent tumultuous fear throbbing through her heart. And when at length the pause came, when she knew that they were alone in the gloom with the music dying away behind them, a last wild dread that was almost anguish made her hide her face deep, deep in his arm while her body hung powerless in his embrace.

He laughed a little—a laugh that thrilled her with its exultation, its passion. And then, whether she would or not, he turned her face upwards to meet his own.

His kisses descended upon her hotly, suffocatingly. He held her pressed to him in such a grip as seemed to drive all the breath out of her quivering frame. His lips were like a fierce flame on face and neck—a flame that grew in intensity, possessing her, consuming her. The mastery of his hold was utterly irresistible.

She gasped and gasped for breath as one suddenly plunged in deep waters. His violence appalled her, well-nigh quenching her rapture. She was more terrified in those moments than she had ever been before. She almost felt as if the godlike being she had so humbly adored from afar had turned upon her with the demand for human sacrifice. Those devouring kisses sent unimagined apprehensions through her heart. They seemed to satisfy him so little while they sapped from her every atom of vitality, leaving her helpless as an infant, her body drawn to his as a needle to the magnet, not of her own volition, but simply by his strength. And ever the fire of his passion grew hotter till she felt as one bound on the edge of a mighty furnace which scorched her mercilessly from head to foot.

She was near to fainting when she felt his arms relax, and suddenly above her upturned face she heard his voice, low and deep, like the growl of an angry beast.

"What have you come here for? Go! You're not wanted."

In a flash she realized that they were no longer alone. She would have disengaged herself, but she was too weak to stand. She could only cling feebly to the supporting arm.

In that moment a great wave of humiliation burst over her, sweeping away her last foothold. For without turning she knew who it was who stood behind her; she knew to whom those furious words had been addressed.

Before her inner sight with overwhelming vividness there arose a vision—the vision of Greatheart in his shining armour with a drawn sword in his hand; and in his eyes—But no, she could not look into his eyes.

She hid her face instead, burning and quivering still from the touch of those passionate lips, hid it low against her lover's breast, too shamed even for speech.

There came a movement, the halting movement of a lame man, and she heard Scott's voice. It pierced her intolerably, perfectly gentle though it was.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said. "But Isabel begged me to come and look for—Dinah." His pause before the name was scarcely perceptible, but that also pierced her through and through. "I don't think she is quite equal to this."

Sir Eustace uttered his faint, contemptuous laugh. "You hear, Dinah?" he said. "This gallant knight has come to your rescue. Look up and tell him if you want to be rescued!"

But she could not look up. She could, only cling to him in voiceless abasement. There was a brief silence, and then she felt his hand upon her head. He spoke again, the sneering note gone from his voice though it still held a faint inflection of sardonic humour.

"You needn't be anxious, most worthy Scott. Leave her to me for five minutes, and I will undertake to return her to Isabel in good condition! You're not wanted for the moment, man. Can't you see it?"

That moved Dinah. She lifted her head from its shelter, and found her voice.

"Oh, don't send him away:" she entreated. "He—he—it was very kind of him to come and look for me."

Eustace's hand caressed her dark hair for a moment. His eyes looked down, into hers, and she saw that the glowing embers of his passion still smouldered there.

She caught her breath with a sob. "Tell him—not to go away!" she begged.

He smiled a little, but electricity lingered in the pressure of his arm. "I think it is time we broke up the meeting," he said. "You had better run back to Isabel. If you wish to keep this episode a secret, Scott is, I believe, gentleman enough to hold his peace."

She was free, and very slowly she released herself. She turned round to Scott, but still she could not—dared not—meet his eyes.

Her limbs were trembling painfully. She felt weak and dizzy. Suddenly she became aware of his hand held out to her, proffering silent assistance.

Thankfully she accepted it, feeling it close firmly, reassuringly, upon her own. "Shall we go upstairs?" he asked, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way. "Isabel is a little anxious about you."

"Oh yes," she whispered tremulously. "Let us go!"

She tottered a little with the words, and he transferred his hold to her elbow. He supported her steadily and sustainingly.

Eustace stepped forward, and lifted the heavy curtain for them with a mask-like ceremony. She glanced up at him as she went through.

"Good night!" he said.

Her lips quivered in response.

He suddenly bent to her. "Good night!" he said again.

There was imperious insistence in his voice. His eyes compelled.

Mutely she responded to the mastery that would not be denied. She lifted her trembling lips to his; and deliberately—in Scott's presence—he kissed her.

"Sleep well!" he said lightly.

She returned his kiss, because she could not do otherwise. She felt as if he had so merged her will into his that she was deprived of all power to resist.

But the hand that held her arm urged her with quiet strength. It led her unfalteringly away.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LESSON

Ten minutes later Scott descended the stairs alone and returned to the salon.

A dance was in progress. He stood for a space in the doorway, watching. Finally, having satisfied himself that his brother was not among the dancers, he turned away.

With his usual quietness of demeanour, he crossed the vestibule, and looked into the smoking-room. Sir Eustace was not there either, and he was closing the door again when the man himself came up the passage behind him, and clapped a careless hand on his shoulder.

"Are you looking for me, most doughty knight?" he asked.

Scott turned so sharply that the hand fell. "Yes, I am looking for you," he said, and his voice was unusually curt. "Come outside a minute, will you? I want to speak to you."

"I am not going outside," Sir Eustace said, with exasperating coolness. "If you want to talk, you can come in here and smoke with me."

"I must be alone with you," Scott said briefly. "There are two or three men in there."

His brother gave him a look of amused curiosity. "Do you want to do something violent then? There's plenty of room for a quiet talk in there without disturbing or being disturbed by anyone."

But Scott stood his ground. "I must see you alone for a minute," he said stubbornly. "You can come to my room, or I will come to yours,—whichever you like."

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "You are damned persistent. I don't know that I am specially anxious to hear what you have to say. In any case it can keep till the morning. I can't be bothered now."

Scott's hand grasped his arm. A queer gleam shone in his pale eyes. "Man," he said, "I think you had better hear me now."

Eustace looked down at him, half-sneering, half-impressed. "What a mule you are, Stumpy! Come along then if you must! But you had better mind how you go. I'm in no mood for trifling."

"Nor I," said Scott, with very unaccustomed bitterness.

He kept his hand upon his brother's arm as they turned. He leaned slightly upon him as they ascended the stairs. Eustace's room was the first they reached, and they turned into that.

Scott was very pale, but there was no lack of resolution about him as he closed the door and faced the elder man.

"Well, what is it?" Eustace demanded.

"Just this." Very steadily Scott made answer. "I want to know how far this matter has gone between you and Miss Bathurst. I want to know—what you are going to do."

"My intentions, eh?" Eustace's sneer became very pronounced as he put the question. He pulled forward a chair and sat down with an arrogant air as though to bring himself thus to Scott's level.

Scott's eyes gleamed again momentarily at the action, but he stood like a rock. "Yes, your intentions," he said briefly.

Sir Eustace's black brows went up, he looked him up and down. "Can you give me any reason at all why I should hold myself answerable to you?" he asked.

Scott's hands clenched as he stood. "I can," he said. "I regard Miss Bathurst as very peculiarly our charge—under our protection. We are both in a great measure responsible for her, though possibly—" he hesitated slightly—"my responsibility is greater than yours, in so far as I take it more seriously. I do not think that either of us is in a position to make love to her under existing circumstances. But that, I admit, is merely a matter of opinion. Most emphatically neither of us has the right to trifle with her. I want to know—and I must know—are you trifling with her, as you have trifled with Miss de Vigne for the past fortnight? Or are you in earnest? Which?"

He spoke sternly, as one delivering an ultimatum. His eyes, steel-bright and unwavering, were fixed upon his brother's face.

Sir Eustace made a sharp gesture, as of one who flings off some stinging insect. "It is not particularly good form on your part to bring another lady's name into the discussion," he said. "At least you have no responsibilities so far as Miss de Vigne is concerned."

"I admit that," Scott answered shortly. "Moreover, she is fully capable of taking care of herself. But Miss Bathurst is not. She is a mere child in many ways, but she takes things hard. If you are merely amusing yourself at her expense—" He stopped.

"Well?" Sir Eustace threw the question with sudden anger. His great, lounging figure stiffened. A blue flame shot up in his eyes.

Scott stood silent for a moment or two; then with a great effort he unclenched his hands and came forward. "I am not going to believe that of you unless you tell me it is so," he said.

Sir Eustace reached out an unexpected hand without rising, and took him by the shoulder. "You may be small of stature, Stumpy," he said, "but you're the biggest fool I know. You're making mountains out of molehills, and you'll get yourself into trouble if you're not careful."

Scott looked at him. "Do you imagine I'm afraid of you, I wonder?" he said, a faint tremor of irony in his quiet voice.

Sir Eustace's hold tightened. His mouth was hard. "I imagine that I could make things highly unpleasant for you if you provoked me too far," he said. "And let me warn you, you have gone quite far enough in a matter in which you have no concern whatever. I never have stood any interference from you and I never will. Let that be understood—once for all!"

He met Scott's look with eyes of smouldering wrath. There was more than warning in his hold; it conveyed menace.

Yet Scott, very pale, supremely dignified, made no motion to retreat. "You have not answered me yet," he said. "I must have an answer."

Sir Eustace's brows met in a thick and threatening line. "You will have very much more than you bargain for if you persist," he said.

"Meaning that I am to draw my own conclusions?" Scott asked, unmoved.

The smouldering fire suddenly blazed into flame. He pulled Scott to him with the movement of a giant, and bent him irresistibly downwards. "I will show you what I mean," he said.

Scott made a swift, instinctive effort to free himself, but the next instant he was passive. Only as the relentless hands forced him lower he spoke, his voice quick and breathless.

"You can hammer me to your heart's content, but you'll get nothing out of it. That sort of thing simply doesn't count—with me."

Sir Eustace held him in a vice-like grip. "Are you going to take it lying down then?" he questioned grimly.

"I'm not going to fight you certainly." Scott's voice had a faint quiver of humour in it, as though he jested at his own expense. "Not—that is—in a physical sense. If you choose to resort to brute force, that's your affair. And I fancy you'll be sorry afterwards. But it will make no actual difference to me." He broke off, breathing short and hard, like a man who struggles against odds yet with no thought of yielding.

Sir Eustace held him a few seconds as if irresolute, then abruptly let him go. "I believe you're right," he said. "You wouldn't care a damn. But you're a fool to bait me all the same. Now clear out, and leave me alone for the future!"

"I haven't done with you yet," Scott said. He straightened himself, and returned indomitably to the attack. "I asked you a question, and—so far—you haven't answered it. Are you ashamed to answer it?"

Sir Eustace got up with a movement of exasperation, but very oddly his anger had died down. "Oh, confound you, Stumpy! You're worse than a swarm of mosquitoes!" he said. "I dispute your right to ask that question. It is no affair of yours."

"I maintain that it is," Scott said quietly. "It matters to me—perhaps more than you realize—whether you behave honourably or otherwise."

"Honourably!" His brother caught him up sharply. "You're on dangerous ground, I warn you," he said. "I won't stand that from you or any man."

"I've no intention of insulting you," Scott answered. "But I must know the truth. Are you hoping to marry Miss Bathurst, or are you not?"

Sir Eustace drew himself up with a haughty gesture. "The time has not come to talk of that," he said.

"Not when you are deliberately making love to her?" Scott's voice remained quiet, but the glitter was in his eyes again—a quivering, ominous gleam.

"Oh, that! My dear fellow, you are disquieting yourself in vain. She knows as well as I do that that is a mere game." Eustace spoke scoffingly, looking over his brother's head, ignoring his attitude. "I assure you she is not so green as you imagine," he said. "It has been nothing but a game all through."

"Nothing but a game!" Scott repeated the words slowly as if incredulous. "Do you actually mean that?"

Sir Eustace laughed and took out his cigarettes. "What do you take me for, you old duffer? Think I should commit myself at this stage? An old hand like me! Not likely!"

Scott stood up before him, white to the lips. "I take you for an infernal blackguard, if you want to know!" he said, speaking with great distinctness. "You may call yourself a man of honour. I call you a scoundrel!"

"What?" Eustace put back his cigarette-case with a smile that was oddly like a snarl. "It looks to me as if you'll have to have that lesson after all," he said. "What's the matter with you now-a-days? Fallen in love yourself? Is that it?"

He took Scott by the shoulders, not roughly, but with power.

Scott's eyes met his like a sword in a master-hand. "The matter is," he said, "that this precious game of yours has got to end. If you are not man enough to end it—I will."

"Will you indeed?" Eustace shook him to and fro as he stood, but still without violence. "And how?"

"I shall tell her," Scott spoke without the smallest hesitation, "the exact truth. I shall tell her—and she will believe me—precisely what you are."